Chapter 3
"Why don't we sign the paperwork first? Then, I'm all yours for the rest of the bottle."
Eric looked her up and down with a predatory grin, then turned to Dashiel, making no effort to hide his desire. "President Dashiel, Secretary Lauren is a rare find. I don't suppose you'd be willing to let her come work for me?"
He laughed, though his eyes remained sharp. "Or at least, let me borrow her to train my useless staff?"
Lauren felt her heart plummet into a frozen void.
She was no wide-eyed novice to the corporate world; she had seen the ugliness behind the curtain before.
Years ago, she had stared down workplace harassment, gathered her evidence, and swung back with a lawsuit, only to be buried under a mountain of character assassination and smear campaigns. Her own lawyer had nudged her to take the hush money and vanish quietly.
Then, a miracle happened.
A wave of other women, emboldened by her stand, came forward. The predator was hauled away in handcuffs, and her name was cleared.
She realized now, with a bitter pang, that Tray had been the invisible hand orchestrating that rescue.
But this wasn't a mid-sized firm where a boyfriend's influence could reach. This was the Vantage Group, a behemoth in the global market.
She had foolishly believed that her role as a high-level receptionist for the Lewis family would shield her from such primal dangers. She had been tragically naive.
If Dashiel decided to throw her to the wolves now, a girl like her-with no backing and no safety net-would be devoured.
Dashiel hadn't clawed his way to the top by being a saint.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Her fingers, still clutching the folder, began to shake uncontrollably.
She scanned the room, hoping to catch the eye of Ethan, the assistant, for some kind of help. Instead, she heard Dashiel's voice-a cold, dismissive drawl.
"Eric, you're asking the wrong person. You should ask Secretary Lauren if she's interested. Vantage doesn't deal in 'services'."
He shot an impatient look at Lauren, then turned back to the executive. "If you're having second thoughts about the contract, perhaps I should finish this conversation with your father-in-law, Dawson."
The temperature in the suite seemed to drop ten degrees.
Eric's smile faltered, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his features before he forced his mask back on. He snatched the pen from Lauren and scrawled his signature across the line.
"Always a pleasure, Mr. Dashiel."
"Indeed."
Dashiel signaled for Ethan to secure the document, then stood and headed for the exit without a backward glance.
Lauren scrambled to follow, but Eric's hand clamped around her wrist like a vice. "Secretary Lauren, don't be in such a rush. Think about my offer."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Eric, I'm perfectly happy where I am." Lauren tried to twist out of his grip, her face turning a ghostly shade of white as fear surged through her.
Eric was a massive man; he pinned her hands with effortless, bruising strength.
The stench of expensive cologne and stale liquor flooded her senses, making her skin crawl. She gritted her teeth, struggling against him. "Let go of me..."
"Secretary Lauren, with me. Now!"
Dashiel's voice sliced through the room like a blade.
The command snapped Eric back to his senses. Meeting Dashiel's warning glare, his fingers loosened.
Lauren didn't waste a second. She wrenched her arm free and bolted, ducking behind Dashiel's broad shoulders.
As the door swung shut behind them, the sound of a bottle shattering against the floor echoed from the room, followed by a string of muffled, vulgar curses.
They hadn't gone more than a few steps before Lauren's stomach lurched. She lunged for a nearby trash bin, retching violently. When she finally looked up, her eyes watery, she saw Dashiel watching her with a deep frown. She offered a weak, apologetic grimace.
The fact that he hadn't left her back there was already more than she expected.
"Mr. Dashiel... please, go ahead. Don't let me hold you up," she managed to gasp.
She ducked into the restroom, but the vomiting brought no relief. Instead, a wave of heat began to roll through her, her vision blurring at the edges. A cold realization hit her: the alcohol she'd downed had been spiked.
That bastard Eric.
She stumbled back out into the hall, her legs feeling like lead and her mind beginning to fragment into a hazy, feverish fog.
By the time she reached the club entrance, her body was vibrating with an unnatural, agitated heat.
A black Rolls-Royce glided to the curb in front of her.
The tinted window slid down halfway, revealing Dashiel's sharp profile.
Panic flared-if Eric found her in this state, she was done for. Without a thought, she lunged for the car door.
It was unlocked.
She collapsed onto the leather seat, tugging at the collar of her sweat-dampened shirt, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Dashiel took one look at her frantic state and barked an order to the driver. "To the hospital. Fast."
The Rolls-Royce roared onto the highway.
Lauren tried to sit up, but as the car accelerated, she lost her balance, her face falling right against Dashiel's chest.
The scent of cool sandalwood and faint tobacco hit her like a splash of cold water in a desert. To her drug-addled brain, he felt like the only cool thing in a world on fire.
She pressed a heavy, impulsive kiss against his shirt, a delirious, mischievous smile playing on her lips.
Dashiel's regal, detached expression cracked.
"Lauren!" His voice was a warning, sharp and authoritative.
But she was far past the point of following orders. She reached up, locking her arms around his neck, and pressed her flushed lips firmly against his.
"This is a work injury, Mr. Dashiel," she whispered against his mouth. "You have to take responsibility."
"Secretary Lauren, are you even aware of what you're doing?"
